Coffee Maker
by HumanDisqualification
Summary: The device rests between Togami's clavicle and the nape of his neck, top-heavy plastic barrel pointing to the ceiling as he examines the soon-to-be victim of his target ere's a new coffee machine at the end of the hall; it's about to meet its maker.


In all his working life, Togami had never once imagined that he'd be forced into such a cramped, _minuscule_ office. Small offices are for the _damned_ , the _nobodies_ of the world with naught but a snivelling, slovenly child to their name, if that. Small offices are for those who don't work enough—who sit and pause for a break because their _fingers are a little sore_ , who spend fifteen minutes in the morning _without fail_ greeting every single colleague and unfulfilled burnout, cockroach and _rat_ they pass on the way, who work merely up to their quota, never beyond, and consider it a _good day's work_ —and Togami is by no means anywhere _near_ deserving of such _injudiciousness_.

There's a desk, a chair, and a screen in the corner. The woman with him—she calls herself his guide, he calls her a _pest_ —calls it _cosy_. He'd be cosier lying down to sleep next to a dead slug.

"If you head out of the door and turn left, there's a coffee machine at the end of the hall." she says, so rudely interrupting his train of thought as if she'd not _known_ that he was too busy chewing on bitter thoughts to bother paying any attention to her. She'd said something most interesting, however; it isn't that he cares about _any_ of what she has to say, but her phrasing is… off. Confusing.

"A machine?" he asks.

"Yeah. At the end of the hall." she repeats, like she somehow thinks that Togami's brain is so clotted with lead that he requires the simplest of instructions to be repeated, drilled into his skull; that he would more likely accept such a bizarre concept and simply ask _where_ rather than what the _hell_ a coffee machine is, quite frankly, baffles him. Most peculiar. Perhaps the term 'coffee machine' is common slang for a kettle.

It's later in the day, when he takes his first sip of a coffee made not by man, but indeed, by a _machine_ , that Togami understands her goals—she'd intended to _poison_ him, to singe his tongue and mar his tastebuds beyond what is recognisable as _human_ —as he rates the tripe a miserable _zero_ out of ten. How _anyone_ can stomach it is beyond him; scepticism leads him to ask _is it even edible_?

Togami decides that no, there's no way this _devil's brew_ is fit for consumption, and laments the very _existence_ of the person who would dare say otherwise as he lifts the machine from its resting place and brings it to a nearby dustbin, before letting it fall to its wasteland doom.

* * *

He works his way through the ranks during his time as an underling—which is an alien experience to him, as one who had originally been exalted just _once_ , from fodder to singularity—and the one thought he cares to acknowledge until the day he's assigned a hacking gun and a team for fieldwork is that _this is all too easy_.

* * *

There's a certain coworker— _nauseated_ is he to imagine such a word, to imagine that someone could be working _with_ him, on the same _level_ as him—whose name he cares not to remember, who is only ever assigned the _simplest_ of missions: deliver a message, deliver supplies, assist in exfiltration… Because of this, he seems to believe that he is _exempt_ from the troubles of the world, that he cannot be touched, or killed, and that it's not _really_ as bad as people are saying, _how could it be_?

Togami passes him on the way to pick up his new weapon. His greeting in passing is absolutely vexatious; he asks _how he is_. Togami ignores him, and continues walking.

* * *

The device rests between Togami's clavicle and the nape of his neck, top-heavy plastic barrel pointing to the ceiling as he examines the soon-to-be victim of his target practice. The function is set to _Move_ , which he's been told serves as a sort of basic on/off switch for any piece of equipment, so long as it's electric. _If that's the case,_ he thinks, lifting it from his shoulder and bringing it to eye level, _this should go swimmingly._

There's a new coffee machine at the end of the hall; it's about to _meet its maker_.

When Togami pulls the trigger the first thing he notices is _green_. It's a green so luminescent that it forces a _blink_ out of him—this thing is absolutely _useless_ for stealth, then—and by the time his eyes are open again, before the momentum of the kickback has yet to settle, Togami can hear the grating whirring of the coffee machine as it's brought to life, an instrument used for a _human's_ job. He supposes it's only _fitting_ , then, to use an equally worthless machine in order to turn it on.

"So _this_ is why the shots are named _kotodama_..." he mumbles to himself, pushing back his glasses with his forefinger as the inedible slop dribbles from the machine's chute like water from a stalactite, "They hardly _seem_ sacred."

It's an interesting design, he'll give it that much. Such instruments come with their uses. He seeks to employ each of them perfectly. Even standing behind the barrel, however, poses its own threats; on a much larger timescale, admittedly, but with equally gruesome results—if not _more_ so.

Concentrated blasts of electromagnetic waves burns the cells like an apartment complex on fire. A direct hit from such waves must surely be _excruciating_ ; if only Togami had the clearance to use the gun on humans, he would gladly test it on a certain _lab rat_ that follows him around. Still, he has no reason to worry himself over something so insipidly _dull_ as the threat of being hit. No, the threat of prolonged exposure is what truly concerns him. Tumours, mutations, infertility, _cancer_ —the more one uses such a weapon, the more of themselves they sell to it. He may as well hook himself up to a drip and slowly bleed himself dry; it'd essentially lead to the same pitiful ending.

And to top it all off, the thing looks _ridiculous_. Togami's scowl is vicious as he keeps it trained on the coffee maker. What he's holding is officially recognized as a weapon; a _child's toy_ is what he'd call it.

Togami reaches for the paper cup once it's full and raises it to his mouth. The drink tastes terrible. A mere one and a half.

He switches the function to _Break_ with the coffee still at his lips and fires with little thought to it; this time a vivid orb of _blue_ lights up the coffee machine as it's hit and it shudders backwards, sputters, crackles and sighs out its last breath of a thin wisp of dead smoke.

Still, if he _must_ use it, there's little other choice.

* * *

 _What an annoyance_...

Hostage retrieval. Togami Byakuya, of all people, has been assigned to _hostage retrieval_. On the authority of an _anonymous tip_! His teeth clench together. This is ridiculous.

Togami's skills lie in finance, in management; the world would be at his feet in a matter of _seconds_ if his talents weren't being wasted for something as insignificant as a _petty rescue mission_. The economy is a _shambles_ at its very best—the gatekeepers of the future are incompetent, useless _fools_ —the weak and frail want nothing more than to have him _contained_ so as to keep him from usurping their ill-earned power. This is the conclusion that he's reached; only bulbous _raptors_ who keep him beneath their thumbs could maintain their status as world leaders for so long without having a _clue_ what they're doing. It's blindingly obvious—how else could they have failed to notice the presence of persons of interest confined for so long within _their own_ prize city?

Though this comes as little surprise to him, just as he's unsurprised that he's been assigned to such a _dreary_ mission, there's something to be said about the fact that of all the reasons that the Future Foundation could have become aware of the helpless, incarcerated souls, they found out via _anonymous tip_. Such negligence is a _disgrace_.

Loathe as he is to do work that _bores_ him, though, he'll complete the assignment perfectly. To do anything less when the stakes are negligible is out of the question; he is destined to overcome each and every obstacle in his way flawlessly, and this doesn't even count as an obstacle.

When Togami is informed of the _name_ of the hostage he's assigned to he can't help but roll his eyes. _Naegi Komaru, huh_. She must have inherited some of _his_ luck to have the privilege of being rescued by none other than Togami Byakuya.

* * *

Togami Byakuya stands in an elevator with a team of five men behind him, unamused.

An apartment complex, of all places. It's so… _lacking_ in subtlety that he's actually disappointed. In the culprit, in the police, in just about _everyone_ wrapped up in this ridiculous ordeal. Whoever's been keeping someone locked up in here for over a year and a half must have at least a reasonably strong hold on the city to have gone undetected for so long—which raises _questions_ , questions that simmer in his stomach and in the hollow of his chest. Who is responsible for this?

Who is responsible for the riots outside? How have they occurred here? For what reason?

 _Why Towa City_? The steady hum of the ascending elevator plays host to each and every question he has—lets them hang in the air around him as he asks them—but answers none of them. More surface with each passing second. Why is Towa, the prize city of the Future Foundation, serving as the playing grounds for what's left of despair, of the mutual killings? Why has the Towa Group been allowed to survive when Togami's family—which was absolutely superior in every way, from its history to its focus to its _heir_ —has crumbled like chalk? _How_? Anywhere else would have been credible— _anywhere_ but Towa, _anywhere_ but the _most highly regulated city he knows of_ …! It should surely be impossible for even the bumbling, _incompetent dogs_ running— _ruining_ —the Foundation to miss the presages of something of this nature, this scale, to allow riots to break out in such an abrupt, egregious manner. So, _why_?

They're safe in the elevator, at least, as it hauls itself past floor after floor. Togami sets aside his concerns, lets them simmer in his stomach for the time being, and glances to the spare hacking device sat unclaimed in the corner of the room, to the previously written memo he'd attached to it. Bringing a spare from the helicopter was a good—no, _perfect_ —idea. Perhaps now, at least, she'll be able to make herself useful.

It feels like too long before the slow ascent heaves to a stop, and the doors slide open with an all-too-jovial _ping_.

The first thing he sees is that there's a _girl_ in front of him, quite obviously desperate for the doors to open faster than they _can_ —impatient or afraid, he doesn't care to work out. _This girl_... The hair, the eyes, the _surely_ vacant brain space—it wouldn't take someone of Togami's brilliance to know that this gawping, quaking buffoon is _a certain idiot's_ close relative—this _must_ be Naegi Komaru.

This is Naegi Komaru, the girl he was sent to retrieve, and she's _in his way_.

A certain _something_ behind her catches his eye— _so, they're here too_ —and with no time to spare or explain, Togami lowers the device so that it's eye level with her, and charges a shot. _That_ should get the point across. And as she falls back onto the floor like the sorry, snivelling _idiot_ she surely is, Togami watches the blue wave of hacking code curl and crackle towards the robotic assailant. The question of whether or not such a weapon is _capable_ of destroying such a sophisticated piece of machinery weighs the air around him for just a moment before the wave makes contact, straight in the beast's mouth. He'd almost be _proud_ of such an excellent shot, had he expected anything less of himself. When it topples over and comes apart completely, Togami looks down to the girl who's shamefully allowed herself to sit helplessly while he did all the work. His men run ahead at that point, which allows him some time, if nothing else.

 _This timing is too perfect to be an unfortunate coincidence_ … Must he encounter _these things_ every time he meets a member of the Naegi family?

After a brief period of conversation with her (along with the confirmation that, yes, she _is_ an imbecile), Togami hears a yell—evidently more of them have infiltrated the building—and takes it as a cue to fetch the spare device from the elevator. _She'll need this if she wants to stand so much as a chance out there_.

If he's any judge of how quickly the suited _monkeys_ with him are letting themselves be slaughtered, Togami estimates about a minute before they come after him—and, by extension, after Naegi Komaru. He sends her off, then, to remove her burdensome presence and prying intuition before she _truly_ becomes an inconvenience to him, before the halls are suffocated with smoke and saturated with steel claws.

They're harder to hit when they're moving, clawing at flesh and pawing clumps of it into their robotic mouths, catching sight of him and leaping, _ecstatic_ to tear his skin from the rest of his body. Even with both hands steadying the device his aim grows shaky under the pressure. There's nothing for it but to leave as soon as possible.

Togami tries to call the elevator back once he's certain that she must be out of the building, even though it means turning his attention away from the threat for _just one second_ —which is plenty enough time for them to attack, to strike. They're slow and awkward, but they fill the hall like a _swarm_ , and all it takes is one well-aimed strike to fell him; Togami's head hits the wall as he falls.

* * *

He comes to with his cheek pressed to a cold, dusty floor, wrists tied at the small of his back and legs splayed out like he'd been trying to crawl on his stomach, like he'd been trying to escape from something before. Before _what?_

A lopsided wince (which accentuates itself on those of his features which are flattened against the floor) crumples his face in a twisted discomfort; his legs are numb. There's white noise where his hands should be, and his strength is pooled around him, his muscles are seeping into the floor, his bones are bleeding out of him like ink through tissue. His eyes open slowly to a clouded world of double-vision—where the _hell_ are his glasses?—and he lolls his head further onto its side, greeted by the sight of a pair of trainers. They're off-white, scuffed, muddy. Togami's head won't move any further without exerting effort; a resource that he soon realises has been completely depleted. _A man?_

"What…?" is all Togami's able to say—his lips are heavy, the light is roaring at his pupils. He was on a mission, wasn't he…? The trainers stand motionless and proud, and he feels an overwhelming sense of foreboding before something sounds above him, shrill, like a siren.

"Kehehehe!" _A boy._ He's been captured. "Wow, you put up a fight! Or tried to, anyway." Riots. There were riots. "But you were no match for us!" he pauses then to snicker to himself, and Togami can't comprehend the bulk of the boy's words—he's been tipped over the edge of a waterfall, fallen into the froth, and his mind has yet to resurface.  
"...'Us'...?" Togami utters, though he hadn't been aware that he _cared_. Whether one person or one thousand—what matters is what they're capable of collectively.

"That's right! We're the Warriors of Hope—we're going to kill all the adults in Towa City, and I'm going to lead them!" Amateur. _Dangerous_.

"Why?"

"For our greatest paradise!" he says it like it's obvious. _It isn't_. Togami is no believer of the concept of utopia but what he remembers of the city is _far from it_. "By the children, for the children! I'm going to be the hero that leads the city! Aren't you impressed?" _No, he isn't_. The sentiment of it all makes him want to vomit; the inebriation does little to help. Togami takes the time to gather his next words—allows them to sit in his mind for long enough to construct them properly. Watery thoughts slip ceaselessly through his fingers but a response, nevertheless, is crafted.

"The streets are covered in blood. This is no more than senseless violence." he mumbles, and even to his obtunded senses, a change in the air is evident. He's evoked a reaction. _Good_. He musters as much of a smirk as he can manage as the legs before him finally move from his sight.

Moments later; a _thud_. His torso recoils from it.

"What would _you_ know about it? You're just a shitty demon with no dick!" yells the boy in a flurry of rage—there's _something_ wrong with the accusation, but Togami can't put a finger on it—and the rage is matched with an equally frantic flurry of dull thuds to his side.

The boy leaves soon after that; he never did catch a name from the so-called 'leader' of the city.

* * *

Stone cold and flushed in grey, the room around him imposes a sense of _discomfort_ in his gut; perhaps it's the low, hollow murmur in the air, the not-quite-silence which he finds displeasing. Perhaps it's the temperature; his shirt taken from him and the damp, overbearing cool in the room, Togami is left with goosebumps. Or perhaps it's the object that catches his eye across the room—it appears to be a waterwheel, which by all means should be unobtrusive and even _mildly_ pleasing to see were it not for the total absence of water to immerse itself in and the fresh, gleaming scarlet spattered across the floor beside it.

No. What he finds most uncomfortable is the knowledge of what has yet to come—and the restraints which bind him face-down to a padded doctor's seat, reclined to the point of forming a flat surface, a table. He feels like a slab of meat.

Togami notices the felt of a thick marker against the area of his back where shoulders protrude and fat is scarce, where skin is stretched thin, where he _knows_ that pain tolerance is low and healing is poor. A name. _The boy's name._ He doesn't need half the intelligence he boasts to guess what comes next.

"J… A… T… A… R… O… Does a U come after that?"

Togami's muscles tense as he awaits the inevitable.

 _Get it over and done with_ , he thinks. To panic would be to expose _weakness_ , imply the misguided thought that _perhaps there's some way out of this_.

As he feels a thin line of cold metal pressed tentatively where the marker had been, a slight adjustment to ensure the _perfect cut_ (it's moved just slightly to the left, then down), in the seconds before the first incision is made all he can hope for is that it's _sterilised_.

A tap of the hammer sends the chisel down— _god_ —! Flesh parts like butter and his fingers stretch outwards, curl like they have something to hold onto—and he _wishes_ they did, wishes there was a sensation other than the blade in his back, muscle and nerves _shrieking_ as it's pulled back out. Togami bites his lip to keep himself from making a sound; it isn't enough to stop the sharp hitch in his breath, nor does it conceal the way he twitches, the way his muscles contract as if they're trying to retreat.

 _It can't be more than a few millimetres_ , he assures himself, _or it would be going through bone, too_. Perhaps he'd marvel at the craftsmanship, the steady hand if he was in another position; if he was reading it from a file as he so often has before, detached and _entertained_.

One cut in and this is already _unbearable_.

The boy _giggles_ as he works, asks questions, chants joyful and hysteric but Togami smothers his face in the padding before him—he doesn't want to hear. He doesn't want to. If only the blood pooling at each and every injury site the boy inflicts was enough to _drown_ him in, soak that _stupid_ leather mask red as the life inside it meets its sorry end.

(He hears a cry of "Do you hate me now?" and by _God_ does he wish he could say _yes_ with the composure and ferocity it deserves.)

Togami counts each one, each violation and act of _treason_ against his body, family, _heritage_. It doesn't ease the pain. Not one bit.

The chisel slips at the eighteenth incision, bringing a half-feral cry from the hollow of Togami's chest as the blade lurches to the side and separates skin from flesh— _uproots_ it. His breaths are a desperate wheeze, and his attempt to appear nonchalant is lost beneath the raw _agony_ of being bested by such a _ghastly_ child. He _hates_ this. He could _kill_ him, gladly...!

"Oops. Guess I'll have to start over." Togami hears a smile in his voice. He wishes he could leave his body.

The boy pulls the chisel back—slowly, so as not to be gentle but rather to _prolong_ this, to remind him that _he has no power here_ , that his power was lost _long ago_. He pulls at his restraints like it could make any difference.

* * *

Long after he's given up trying to count the wounds, a girl's voice is what rises Togami from his pain-borne stupor—it's lackadaisical in tone and pre-meditated in quality. Somehow he finds himself hating her already.

" _Huuuuh?_ We don't have another broadcast scheduled for an hour!", she says, and the boy with the chisel startles away from him. _Good_. "Isn't that odd? I must be smelling the leftover dinner Servant tried to feed us."

"Aah… Kotoko-chan." he says, a response much too sheepish for one who could just as easily drive that chisel of his through her _skull_. Togami wonders if, in that case, the threat she poses is even more daunting—perhaps. It certainly doesn't seem out of the question.

"Naughty, naughty! Extracurriculars like this are a no-no, remember?" then he isn't supposed to be doing this. He isn't allowed to do so much as lay a _finger_ on him, but he _did so anyway_ , and he did _so much worse_ …! "Shingetsu-kun will tattle to Dai..." she pauses, cutting herself off as if she's realised something, "—Himself! And then he'll bawl to Monaka-chan, and where would your sticky fingers be, then? I could feed them to a Beast Monokuma, one-by-one! Serve them with pureed vegetables and they might almost look like sausages!"

 _More daunting indeed_. Implicit or not, these children have established a hierarchy. _And to think that the boy with the mask falls at the lower end of it._

The girl steps closer to him and he turns his head to her; she's so laden, _sodden_ with pink that it makes him want to _vomit_ —and the weapon in her hands is equally as _nauseating_ , confusing and _far_ more ridiculous than his own. Just as his eyes narrow she pulls its trigger—a pair of _dentures_ are launched into the back of his neck—why _dentures_?—and Togami's glare instantly loosens as his muscles go limp.

 _Ah. They must be lined with sedatives._

* * *

Time is stagnant in the cell of Togami Byakuya.

He's grown accustomed to this feeling, of a locked, oppressive metal door and no windows. The inability to leave. The inability to _accept_ it. This time there's no escape and by now he's almost used to it. It's almost _more_ familiar to him than the act of ruling, of sitting at the throne of the world and knowing that he _belongs_ there—

Togami refuses to acknowledge such a thought. He _resents_ it.

Instead he busies himself with the various boxes stacked haphazardly across the shelves in search of any information which could be of use to him; most of it is blank paper. _Useless_. He moves on.

It's when he hauls a high-up box from the shelf and finds inside a set of accounts obviously made by some sort of _lowly intern_ from _years_ ago— _twenty years!_ —that he hears the mechanical drone of some sort of motorised transport along with the carefree hums of a young girl as they approach his cell.

He feels _cold_. The drone comes to a halt.

"Isn't it sad that nobody is coming to save Togami Byakuya-san—?"

 _What…_? "Or, rather… Monaka picked someone unobtrusive like Fukawa Touko-san to come here because I thought she wouldn't get in the way." she says, mock-sadness crawling through her voice and making him _seethe_. Togami would rather pop _his own eardrums_ with a needle than listen to her for any longer. But what she's saying sounds like information _far_ more useful than old, meaningless accounts; begrudgingly he pays attention. "Say, wouldn't it be terrible if she actually succeeded in trying to get Naegi Komaru-san to leave the city rather than bringing her here like Monaka wants? If that happened, there'd be no reason to keep Togami Byakuya-san alive anymore."

She's trying to unsettle him, obviously. _Such arrogance_ … To prod at him like some sort of caged _animal_ …! Togami's teeth grit as the hairs on his arms stand on end. He doesn't say a word. He loathes the very thought of giving her more to use against him.

But she continues all the same. "Hmm… I wonder how it must feel." _Shut up_ , he thinks. Pleads. "...Knowing that you're only alive because you were _chosen_ to be?"

"...What…?!" he speaks before there's so much as a chance to stop himself—nausea returns pools in his stomach and the paper in his hand crumples as his fist clenches, _trembles_ around it.

 _Chosen_ …! She... has no _idea_ what that word means…!

"Ufufu…" the motorised drone starts up once more with a click and her giggle fades—he wants to _kill_ her.

* * *

Silence perpetuates.

They don't visit him anymore—the one with the leather mask and jarring laughter, the one who cried "leader"—his only guest over the past few days has taken the form of a small, chair-bound girl and in her recent absence, he's left with a room of boxes and cool air. An optimist might call it a blessing. Togami calls it _boredom_.

He's tired. His head aches, _bemoans_ the lack of caffeine pulsing through his veins and his eyes, though wide they may be, feel like dry, cracking leather. Vision fazes between blurred and focused on a single spot of the floor, gritty and unclean as the rest of it. Basic utilities have been withheld and Togami considers how _disheveled_ he must look, stubble pushing shyly through his skin, sweat stains at the armpits of his shirt and blood stains at the back. His jacket, at least, conceals the worst of it.

Togami sits on the floor because he's _sure_ there are insects living in the bed—and wonders about the state of the city.

The throbbing in his head chimes like a bell tower.

When the rumbling starts he doesn't notice it at first—credits it to his lack of sleep. But then the earth _lurches_ , throws him up like a bad meal, forces him forward and down with _no warning whatsoever_ —! As the air is wrung out of him, his cheek and torso colliding with the concrete floor, Togami winces and is embraced only with the roar of what _sounds_ like an earthquake—or _worse_.

 _What… the hell…?!_

He lays still until long after the earth stops shaking—which, shockingly, is over as suddenly as it started—before wearily pushing himself up, standing briefly on shivering legs to dust himself off. He still has his _dignity_ , after all. The least that can be done is maintaining how he presents himself in whatever way remains possible.

Togami sits back on the floor once that's done and swallows himself in apathy. No answers are coming.

Or so he thinks, _and rightfully so_ , until no more than ten minutes later he hears the yelling of familiar voices echoed through the hallway. Lifting his head slowly, Togami narrows his eyes.

 _They're here_.

* * *

Before he can get the paperwork out of the way (and there's a _lot_ of it) there are a plethora of medical tests waiting for him to tackle; they drag on for _hours_ , like there's enough substance to them to somehow _warrant_ being a _total waste of time_ (though he _knows_ that each one lasts no longer than a few minutes). The results soon become clear: Togami Byakuya boasts health in all ways but one.

The wounds on his back are infected. _Typical_.

With clean dressings applied, he returns to work with all the pride of knowing that one of the nobodies of the world have likely taken the day off, would have abstained from any and all work because _their back was feeling a little sore_.

He returns from all the nonsense to a still-broken coffee machine. Little does it matter; his throat is sawdust and for once his cravings lie in something _cold, refreshing_. A glass of water would more than suffice.

When he finds out that water comes not in a glass, not even a paper cup but one made of _plastic_ , Togami can do little but scoff. Of _course_. Foolish of him to expect better.

* * *

Time after returning from Towa City passes with little incident, until now.

The Future Foundation has secured a group of fourteen refugees, who claim to be survivors of Hope's Peak Academy. This is what Togami gathers from the file perched neatly in his right hand, paper cup of the now-familiar _bile_ claiming to be coffee secured in his left. Honestly, how _anyone_ could have survived sans himself is a mystery.

"Look who it is!" says a familiar voice. A colleague with all the mannerisms of a _chimpanzee_ , with all the impertinence to treat him like a _friend_. Togami, pointedly so, takes a sip of coffee and continues to address his full focus to the file.

"You sure drink a lot of that stuff, huh?" he continues, "Good thing they finally fixed that coffee machine!" Togami sighs, and sets down his cup. He _hates_ his coworkers.

A hand meets his back as the chimp speaks. Togami recoils—shoulder jerks a fraction of an inch away from the offending hand. He pushes his glasses up; the skin on his back feels hot.

"...Hey, is everything okay?" he continues, and Togami wishes he could _throttle_ him. "You look tired. Get some rest!"

It's the last straw. Togami's hand clutches the file a little tighter, before snapping it shut. He rises from his seat silently, smoothly, towering over over the babbling primate in an assertion of all the power that he still lays claim to. His pupils are thin.

"You have ten seconds to vanish before I stretch out your tongue and make a dartboard from it." says Togami.

Surprisingly enough, he's swiftly left alone again. And with just enough time to finish reading before he goes to investigate these newfound survivors of the Academy.

* * *

Togami learns that the survivors are _frauds_. Naegi approaches him with a most interesting plea. Magnanimously, he accepts.

* * *

 _Good grief_ …

It was bound to happen eventually; perhaps even destined. They're dealing with a virus of innovatory qualities—how it infiltrated the program in the first place is beyond him—and it comes as no surprise that the first victim has been claimed already.

The monitors alone make it obvious it's a gruesome murder. More than ten points of entry across the torso—the first of which through their larynx, denying them the ability to _scream_ —and the ones that followed all thrust erratically, _desperately_ through their body until finally, one last puncture to their stomach accentuated with a twist of the skewer, pushing it in deeper and deeper as if the last sevenimpalements didn't do a _thing_.

Togami winces. It's hard not to when the victim looks like that. Like _him_.

There's something to be said about their motives—clearly they have the intelligence to understand that lesser beings are _fodder_ , that someone so useless as the one they saved could have died easily without leaving so much as a _scratch_ on the world in which he lived. Naturally, under any other circumstances their own death would be all but completely unimportant—they, too, are truly nobody—but this death is _personal_. This is a death attributed to _him_. Togami's nails press into his palm.

They wear his face and _dare_ to have the tenacity to sacrifice their life for another— _one without an iota of talent, at that!_ —and Togami can only watch with a grimace on his face for they are _slandering_ his name, giving him a bad reputation.

What a terrible fake they are.

* * *

His chest feels hollow and there's a pocket of air clogging his throat. The skin between his eyebrows forms tiny crevices as it's pressed together, his eyes closed tight for a brief few seconds as he takes in a breath.

The waters are calm. The ferry ducks moves against the waves calmly, at a steady pace. The sky is totally devoid of clouds, and the sun is shining. It's, quite literally, clear sailing. And yet he can't _stand_ it, can't stand the sheer _turmoil_ it rises in his stomach, the dizziness, the headache. The sooner he touches dry land again, the better.

Togami's eyes open just a fraction and he can see a _certain idiot_ in the room. Behind the eyesore, the island of Jabberwock grows increasingly distant. An island resort to serve as a prison, open-spaced confinement and, most importantly of all, a chance for the irredeemable to redeem themselves. Togami doesn't buy into it for one _solitary_ second. But, it's none of his concern. This was _Naegi's_ choice, supported by Togami simply for its interest value. The one whose shoulders carry the weight of hope like it's his own invention, who promised, in all of his mediocrity, to dive straight in whenever he saw the slightest of dangers... How far his luck extends and how long he can keep up this ridiculous farce of _making a difference_... he owes a debt of gratitude to Naegi's sister, but to him Togami can offer naught but limited—and _waning_ —interest.

He would have let them die.

He would have delivered them straight back to the Future Foundation.

He would have ensured minimum costs and maximum efficiency.

Without argument, Togami's way of operating is vastly superior. Still, he thinks, this way _did_ serve to entertain him—if only for a little while.

* * *

Togami keeps a stash of luwak coffee for the particularly trialling days, the days when machine-made slop just isn't enough to quell him. He finds the mug—the smell, the stale and flat taste to which only the most refined beings can find an appreciation—to be familiar to him. _This is how it should be_ , he thinks, fingers looped through the mug's worn handle.

He'd acquired this particular coffee from Hope's Peak Academy, a gift from the _idiot_. Goodness knows how someone so incomprehensibly common _,_ so _dull_ got his hands on something of this calibre. That Togami is unable to find any more himself is _infuriating_.

Allegedly, the gift came from some crude sort of machine in the store—as if he buys into such a _ridiculous_ concept.

The incident claimed victims across the world. No country—nor the life in it—has been left unravaged. And though Togami cares not for the lives of the mediocre, their sudden absence coupled with the crumbled world economy spelled devastation for businesses everywhere. That devastation is _still_ felt elsewhere, _everywhere_ —his tongue burns between each sip—luwak coffee was a niche product already before despair had come to roost. Now, the farmers can barely spare a hand to collect the beans left behind by what few palm civets still roam the wild—production of luwak coffee has come to a halt.

The world cannot afford luxuries.

And Togami has just used what was left of his stash.

* * *

It's a good while before the extraction of Naegi Komaru and Fukawa Touko from Towa City becomes a feasible plan of action. Togami's word, however, is absolute and he has not yet forgotten his debt of gratitude to the two of them, no matter how begrudgingly he admits such a thing.

Togami promised their swift retrieval. And as the city crawls peacefully into view on the horizon, Togami stares from his seat in the helicopter. This promise is just about fulfilled. And it's a good thing, too. Of all the derelict cities in the world, he'd rather _not_ see this one again.

From where he's seated the city looks calm, quiet; a second thought decides that _dead_ is a better way to put it. No pulse, no breath. No smoke rising from the skyscrapers. Perhaps it's for the best, but...

His gut feels heavy. A sickening deja vu.

They're to land in the same park as before. The threat the city held only months ago has been more or less neutralised, thanks to the combined efforts of a certain pair of girls—there is _nothing_ in this place worth worrying about any longer. Closer still does the helicopter approach the rendezvous point and further still does the weight in his gut pull towards the floor. It's an ugly city.

Before long and Togami can begin to make out the matchstick figures of the two he's here for—dots on the landscape, truly _minor_ beings. He could crush them beneath his thumb from this height.

Soon enough he can make out facial expressions, posture—his former classmate grabs the wrist of the other girl and stands proud as she waits—he can already tell which one is out today.

The helicopter lands. He's eager to leave already.

The door is opened for him, and he steps out. Their hair is windswept, their looks disheveled. Togami never has seen a citizen here who knew how to look _acceptable_ —it must be some sort of a fashion statement here to look like the very _concept_ of washing is nonexistent.

Still, Togami is here as promised, his debt is exempt; after this he's free to leave them to their own devices, free to leave them to leave _him_ alone.

* * *

The returning flight is _considerably_ louder with the extra company on board, and not a minute goes by in which Togami _doesn't_ lament the knowledge that his obligations prohibit him from hauling the both of them from the helicopter, watching them fall to the rocks below. If there is just one reason for him to feel grateful, it's that Naegi Komaru is sat between himself and _her_ , the girl with wild eyes and teeth bared—Genocider Syo. It makes his time just a _little_ less unbearable—if only in the slightest of fashions.

"—B-But! Hagakure-san said that you ran!" says the idiot's sister.  
"Sure did! He tucked his tail between his legs and sped off before I could even bat my eyes and give him a good morning kiss! I even _dressed up_ for the occasion—" and her elbow butts into the other girl's ribs, as if her insinuations weren't unsubtle enough, "—performance anxiety, Darling?" He wishes he didn't understand her implications, vulgar and _repulsive_.

"Shut up." Togami says, and looks out of the window. Her response to such a command, of course, is to lean over and continue to play her silly game of catchup where she knows her voice is _inescapable_ , mouth all-too-close to his ear and leaning over the other girl in order to achieve such a feat.

And so she continues to speak, impurities flowing from her mouth like _sewage_.

There's a lull in her speech eventually, a pause while she conjures up a new and equally as dreadfully obscure topic to make his spine _crawl_ when Naegi speaks up—immediately does he wish that she _hadn't_.

"Does… she normally… _oink_ when she sleeps?"

There's a tension in the air, a taut steel wire between them in the second after she speaks. These words take a surprising amount of time to process when he knows _exactly_ what they mean, exactly what they _imply_ —this isn't the first time this has been brought up. And yet, with all the context in mind, all the knowledge that this is a very _specific_ question, all his eloquence and articulation comes down to just one word in response—

"... _Oink…_?!"

A snort from the former classmate. His eye twitches—from a solitary snort always comes _more_ , and soon she fills the helicopter with her loud, obnoxious, _unpalatable_ laughter. She _cackles_ , even, and his disdain shows in the colour _red_ across his forehead, the veins in his hands pushing against the skin which binds them as his fingers clamp down into his palm.

"Never mind! Forget I said anything!" says Naegi, flailing her arms wildly in a mortified attempt to diffuse the situation; Togami's outrage only increases.

* * *

Togami hates her laugh.

He hates the way it hugs the wall and fills every indent in the cement between the bricks—the way it hits his ears like a _caterwaul_ , how he couldn't ignore it if he tried.

Her smile is equally as _tepid_ —festering thoughts lie behind her lips, pressed beneath her tongue.

 _She doesn't usually have a hammer_.

She looks at him like he's a piece of _meat_ and he _knows_ that she's wanted this for _so long_ , wanted to see the royal blood of Togami Byakuya spill out from him like she's sticking a _pig_. He tries to move but his muscles are pure _lead_ —her hand reaches beneath her skirt and out come a pair of scissors, razor-sharp and glinting in the evening light.

 _This isn't happening_. Not _this,_ on top of everything else. To disrespect him so _blatantly_ , has she _completely_ forgotten who he is…?!

...No. Of course she remembers. That's the very reason he's in this situation.

Togami pulls at his arms but they're held back by _God knows what_ —nothing is keeping him in place but he _can't move_ , can't think of _anything_ beneath the cold stare of her grin other than that he wants to _live_. He will _not_ be _just another file_ in the investigation report, he refuses to be _just another victim_...!

She spins the scissors on her fingers just once before dashing towards him with a shriek. His eyes widen in a terrified fury—no, no, _no_ —and she brings the blade of her scissors crashing down, just short of his right wrist.

She makes eye contact. There's still a sneer stretched wide across her face; it's _revolting_.

"You know, Darling…" she says, and somehow he can already hear the words coming. "The world is comprised of ups and downs! Tops—" and she takes the time to snort at her own crass humor, "and bottoms!" Another step brings her closer and closer, her shadow overlapping with his, consuming it. "Innings and outings—I came in, and now there's only one way you're getting out!"

Togami responds; his words are inaudible.

She grins wider at that and lifts the hammer. He'd _spit_ on her if it would change anything.

She lingers on the moment and he's running out of time—it's the same as before, _it's happening again_ —a tap of the hammer drives the scissors down through flesh and bone and this time he's _screaming_ , voice grating against his throat like sandpaper. Togami's hand convulses and his fingers twitch under the cacophony of his strangled gasps—he wants to look away but he _can't, it won't change anything,_ his body is going to grow cold and he'll be nothing more than a _piece of art_.

 _This is not how he's supposed to die. This is not the path destined for him_.

She hammers a second blade into his left wrist before he can even _begin_ to grow accustomed to the first—as if that's _possible_ in the first place—eliciting a second convulsion and a wheeze of a sob with it.

There's a hiss in the air between her teeth and she looks a _monster_. Togami tries to bring his hand into a fist, tries to reach out to grab her throat and _snap it in two_ , but when the skin of his wrist stretches and rips around the steel blade lodged into the wall behind him his face shrivels under the pain.

She _cackles_.

There's blood rising to the wound and trickling out like it's been _begging_ to be released; she's been waiting for the same thing, he can tell. She's _loving_ this.

"You've been keeping me waiting for soooo long! I don't know how I'm gonna top this one, Darling—I might have to quit while I'm ahead!"

She brings a third pair arched upwards to his head and presses them to his temple with a smirk; his eyes follow her like a painting. Whatever depravities flutter through her mind must be _overflowing_ —he can practically _smell_ them, hidden in the copper in the air, buried under every cry he tries to stifle.

She's going to give him a _crown_. She's going to _bludgeon_ it into his _skull_.

Togami's eyes won't close no matter how desperately he tries, no matter how _dry_ they are, and they watch her every movement with a voyeur's intensity.

He _needs_ to stop her.

Panic rises as she lifts the hammer once more and he's sweating all over—he _cannot_ die, _not like this…!_

When the first blade is pummeled into his head he expects to lose consciousness. The second by _far_ breaches the worst pain he'd thought imaginable; the third only proves him wrong again. By the time the twelfth is lodged in he _wishes_ he wasn't conscious.

From her pouch she produces one last pair of scissors—made of gold, the _pièce de résistance_ —and lets the blade trace a taunting line up his stomach. When it comes to a stop at the left side of his chest the look on her face is more full of excitement than he's _ever_ seen before. This must be the _climax_ , the finishing blow.

 _He can't die._

He doesn't— _want_ —

Swathed in a cold blanket of sweat he shudders into consciousness—and wishes he hadn't, wishes the room would stop _suffocating_ him, wishes his lungs would let in the air he's _trying_ to breathe, _desperately_ , over and over and _over_. The room around him feels like a swamp; he swears the walls are pulsing.

His hand reaches to feel his chest and he's almost surprised to find that he can move it at all, that his arteries remain intact and unpunctured, that he remains very much _alive_. Togami exhales. His back is damp, and his pyjamas cling to him. He feels _disgusted_.

With sleep but a fading memory, Togami reaches for his glasses and gets out of bed. He wants coffee.

As he dresses himself the pain from before is all but gone—the only thing that remains is a dull ache in his chest. That's all it's ever been.

* * *

Togami isn't one to care about laying claim to materialistic dross beyond what is necessary to live. Possessions, money—they are mere side-effects of power, and a lack of _either_ is more than acceptable so long as that power, that control remains.

That said, he isn't _stupid_. Work equates to pay. It's a tradeoff of time for sustenance. The level of pay is dependent on factors such as skill, responsibility, _danger_ —all three of which are present in his current work. _Really_ , he should be living comfortably by now, working in tailored suits rather than hand-me-down scraps and an office rather than a _closet_.

So far he's given to this job a week of his freedom—to the snotty _brats_ with concepts of hope so warped that _really, it's no wonder their struggles ended so horribly_ —and with that week he's given every marred, raised line across his skin forming a signature like it's _art_ , a name on his back twice written. He's given _months_ more after that to an island in the middle of the pacific surrounded by company that the devil itself would frown at. He's had his future remoulded and his past stolen away into a chasm of his mind that refuses to recall itself. The Future Foundation has been _benevolent_ enough to restore some of that stolen past to him, but at what cost? Togami Byakuya's time has been spent like a shopping spree.

His nose flares in a silent rage as he brings the paper cup to his lips; he _really_ isn't being paid enough.


End file.
